


In An Ideal World, Things Would Have Been Different

by nanuk_dain



Category: The Sinking of the Laconia (2011)
Genre: Action/Adventure, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanuk_dain/pseuds/nanuk_dain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you meet the right person at the very wrong time, Hartenstein thinks while he's watching the MPs lead Mortimer away to their waiting vehicle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clonesgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clonesgirl/gifts).



> Okay, yet another very rare fandom has me in its claws. This seems to become another one of those long fics I seem to be prone to write... XD I blame clonesgirl, because hey, she's the reason I know this fandom even exists. Thanks hon, and this fic is for you! I hope you like the beginning of the long journey ahead ^_^
> 
> Some of the dialogue is taken from the movie, sometimes adapted to my storyline. Those of you who're familiar with other stories of mine certainly know what to expect: I begin during the movies, give the events my own wee spin and then proceed far beyond the time frame we were given. Oh, and _/"Blabla"/_ are things originally said in German. 
> 
> Now enjoy! More coming soon (I'm currently at almost 16.000 words, so no worries, there _will_ be more XD )

  
**PART I - Hartenstein POV**   
CHAPTER 1   


_U-156, approximately 680 miles off the coast of West Africa  
September 13th 1942_

 

"What rank of officer would you be, sir?" Hartenstein watches the man in front of him closely. He's tall, lean but strong, and he manages to look dignified although he's barefoot, his hair is messed up and he's wearing nothing but a dirty shirt and long johns. It's not exactly the appearance of a British officer, yet the fact that he _is_ an officer is as obvious as if he was wearing full dress uniform.

The Englishman pulls the blanket tighter around him and Hartenstein find the gesture an odd mixture of vulnerable and defiant. The Englishman doesn't avert his eyes, though, and doesn't try to deny it. His voice is quiet when he asks, "How did you know?"

Hartenstein can't entirely hide his amusement when he pointedly looks at the Englishmen's bare feet and his general dilapidated state of clothing. "I think it was demeanour rather than dress."

For the fraction of a second the Englishman seems to be caught off guard by the touch of humour. He hesitates a moment before he answers, and now he does avert his gaze. Even after just minutes of knowing him, Harternstein instinctively dislikes the abashment of the gesture. It doesn't seem to suit the man. "Well, in answer to your question: not very high ranking."

"Oh, now you do disappoint us." Hartenstein replies, glad to see that the irony provokes the Englishmen's fire to return. He likes him better like that.

"Junior Third Officer, Merchant Navy, Thomas Mortimer." His voice is still quiet and controlled, but there's a hint of a challenge hidden in his words. It almost makes Hartenstein smirk. It's quite a feat to put a challenge in words that state nothing but your name and rank. 

"There's hot coffee and soup, Mortimer. And a change of clothing." Hartenstein offers. Mortimer doesn't move, though, he stays where he is and keeps watching Hartenstein with his intense gaze. "But low rank as you claim to be, it seems that you're the only officer on board of the Laconia, and consequently I'm afraid that you should consider yourself a prisoner of war, and I have some questions."

"Regarding?" 

There's something about that officer that Hartenstein doesn't know how to describe. A silent strength, emotions that are tightly harnessed but still simmering right under the surface. Somehow he finds it fascinating, and Hartenstein has to lick his suddenly dry lips before he answers. "The allied treatment of the Italians under your command and care."

The Englishman's eyes narrow and there's a sharp tone to his low voice. " _My_ command? _My_ care?"

Of course Hartenstein is well aware that as Junior Third Officer, Mortimer wouldn't have had much influence on the treatment of the prisoners of war. He just has the bad luck to be the only officer left. "There are witnesses."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, bring all the witnesses you can find." Suddenly the Englishman loses his composure. Hartenstein is almost surprised at the outbreak. Almost. "You know, the only person I wanted to hit on board the Laconia was a fucking Englishman. So go on, bring your man here. Bring me a witness."

It's then that Mannesmann comes back with the Italian in tow. At the same time Hartenstein notices Hilda Smith approaching until she comes to stand in the doorway. 'Hover' is the more accurate word, actually, because she looks like she'd rather be somewhere else. _Anywhere_ else. 

_/"This is an honourable man."/_ She says out of the blue in fluent German, no accent, no hesitation. It takes him by complete surprise, and he can't prevent it showing on his face. _/"You asked me, Captain, what was so special about me. The answer is: there is nothing special about me."/_

Hartenstein stares at her. He never suspected this. From the lack of surprise on Mortimer's part, he takes it that the Englishman _did_ know.

_/"She's German."/_ Mannesmann utters, and somehow it's reassuring that he seems to be just as stunned as Hartenstein feels. 

Now Hilda Smith does hesitate, and she glances at Mortimer before she looks up again. "Yes, I'm German."

Hartenstein is still trying to regain his composure when the Italian interrupts. "I'm sorry, Captain. I know this man. I know Mortimer." 

Hartenstein is secretly grateful for the interruption as well as for the change of topic. He's not quite sure how to deal with all of this. It was supposed to be a simple sinking of an enemy troop ship, and now the situation is becoming more complicated by the second. First there are hundreds of civilians on the ship, then there are mistreated Italian POWs, and now there's a British woman who's actually German. How much worse can it get? He really should have just left when he still had the chance. Now it's too late.

"This man did the best he could." The Italian continues and then looks at Mortimer, holding his head high and his bruised face serious. "I want to thank you."

The Italian doesn't hesitate to speak for Mortimer, and Hartenstein can tell that he means it. Hartenstein is surprised to feel a strange kind of relief that the Italian confirms his first impression of the English Officer. He's not the kind of man to do the things he learned about the allied treatment of the prisoners of war. He seems so decent and honest and until now Hartenstein hasn't known how much he wanted it to be true. He remained suspicious of the man because his first impression might have been wrong. He's glad that it isn't.

Mortimer doesn't quite seem to know what to do or say. He gives the Italian a respectful nod that is quietly returned.

"Mannesmann." Hartenstein doesn't need to say anything else, his First Officer knows what to do. "Mr. Mortimer. Please."

Mortimer's gaze finds his again, as fierce and direct as before, and Hartenstein feels goosebumps spread over his arms and up his neck. He doesn't know what it is about the Englishman that gets under his skin. He follows Mortimer with his gaze until he's out of sight. 

Only then does Hartenstein turn to Hilda Smith - or whatever her real name might be. Time to find out where she fits into this mess. _/"And what is your story?"/_

 

***

 

Hartenstein tells himself that he's not paying special attention to the English officer, but he still notices that Mortimer doesn't sit idle once he has eaten and changed into more appropriate clothes. Instead he wanders around the other survivors and checks on them, a question here and a reassuring word there. He doesn't make a difference between the people, Hartenstein remarks. He checks on the British civilians and servicemen just as well as on the Italians, and it appears that he's quite well known and liked among the survivors. Interesting. 

Actually, it might make this situation a lot easier. It's right then and there that Hartenstein decides to have Mortimer compile a list of the survivors instead of having Fiedler and Weber trying to do it. Mortimer seems to have a high standing among most of the survivors, no matter their nationality, and chances are that they'll be more comfortable - and honest - if he is the one asking for their name, nationality and age. It's worth a try.

The only problem is to get the Englishman to work with him. Contrary to most of the other survivors, he seems to hold a grudge that Hartenstein feels is not just connected to the sinking of the Laconia. It'll be a challenge to get him to cooperate.

Hartenstein sends Fiedler to get Mortimer and send him to the ready room. It only takes a few minutes before the tall figure of the Englishman appears in the doorway. He's just pulling a dark blue jacket over a clean shirt, and he's wearing a fresh pair of trousers. 

Hartenstein swallows and licks his bottom lip. They're all his clothes. It's not that surprising, really, considering that he and Mortimer are of almost equal height and that most of the other men on board are shorter, so their clothes wouldn't fit him. Still, there's a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach at seeing Mortimer in his clothes, and Hartenstein makes a point to ignore it. It still takes him a second to find his voice.

"Well, Mortimer, what a fine fellow you seem to be." Hartenstein talked to Di Giovanni, the Italian with the big mouth, and got a reasonably detailed report on the conditions and events on board the Laconia. It seems that Mortimer was the only one making an effort to improve the situation, although it was of limited success. 

"I was only..."

"...doing the decent thing." Hartenstein finishes his sentence. Usually he would think such a claim to be false modesty, but with Mortimer, he knows it's actually true. "You can extend that splendid philosophy further by providing a list by nightfall of all allied survivors on board and in the lifeboats."

"I will gladly do that, sir, but I won't give you the rank of any servicemen. Only their name and number." Mortimer says while he enters the small space that's separated off with curtains in a semblance of privacy. There's a fierce protectiveness around him, and it makes Hartenstein suddenly feel exhausted. He's trying to do the right thing, and he's tired of having to explain himself at every turn - to his crew, to Command, to the Allied Forces, to the survivors. 

To Mortimer.

"I'm not asking... telling you to do that. That is not what I want at all." Hartenstein closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath to gather some strength. He needs Mortimer on his side if he wants this unplanned rescue to go down as smoothly as possible given the circumstances. He'll explain his intentions to the Englishman, then, that should help. "I want to send the names to the international Red Cross in Geneva so that they can inform the relatives."

When he looks up, he finds Mortimer looking at him with a strange expression on his face. The moment the Englishman realises that Hartenstein caught him staring, he quickly averts his gaze, only to look up again almost immediately. Hartenstein wonders if he's imagining the slight blush to Mortimer's cheeks. It could be the lights.

Hartenstein forces his mind back on track and proceeds explaining his plan. "Names, nationality and age, nothing more." He elaborates and holds Mortimer's intense gaze. He finds that he can't look away. The goosebumps return, beginning at his neck this time, spreading down his arms and back. 

"I would have thought those right and proper, decent thing, wouldn't you?" Hartenstein continues after a moment of silence, and he's aware his voice is rougher than it usually is. Mortimer doesn't say a word, but he inclines his head in agreement. He never looks away, and suddenly Hartenstein feels like there's a weight settling on his shoulders. It has been there for a long time, but never before did it feel quite so oppressing and stifling. 

"As it happens, I have no political role, or actually interest. I've been a sailor since long before 1933." He find himself admitting, and he can't hold back the words. It's as if his mouth has a mind of its own, and he feels too emotionally drenched and tired to even care that it's showing. Somehow it doesn't bother him to let Mortimer see it. "My only concern is the safeguard of my nation, and the safety of those under my command."

Hartenstein sighs and closes his eyes against the exhaustion. He can't even pinpoint why this situation is getting to him so much. Maybe it's the fact that he's responsible for the death of so many innocent people who had no part in this war. He's never enjoyed killing, but it's his task as a U-boat Commander, and he's damn good at it. But usually it's enemy military ships he engages, people who have as much a role to play in this war as he has. Not civilians. Not women and children.

It's pointless to think about it, and he knows it. Done is done, there's no way of rewinding time and correct his decision. He's well aware that his commands were correct giving the information he had - the Laconia was officially declared a troop ship, and she was armed. Every captain would have made the same decision in his stead.

Knowing that doesn't make him feel any better, though.

Hartenstein takes a deep breath and forces himself to regain his composure. He's the Commander of this ship, after all, and he has to get a grip and do whatever is necessary to keep his crew safe. That's his first priority, followed by finding a way to keep the survivors alive until they can be transferred to other ships. 

Hartenstein turns to look at Mortimer and feels a light shiver run down his back when he finds the Englishman watching him. It seems that the hostility in his eyes has somehow lessened. For a moment Hartenstein even gets the insane feeling that Mortimer wants to reach out, touch him, maybe squeeze his shoulder. The feeling is gone as quickly as it came when Mortimer's eyes flicker away for a second, and it leaves Hartenstein strangely unsettled.

"I will take care of the list, Captain." Mortimer says and looks back at him. 

Hartenstein holds his gaze for a moment, then he inclines his head. "Thank you."

Mortimer gives a short nod and turns to leave. Hartenstein watches him retreat and stares at the doorway lost in thought long after he's gone. He's almost glad when Dengler comes in and brings him a bowl of soup, followed by Rosteau and Mannesman sitting down around the table with him to eat lunch.

Throughout the day Hartenstein catches glimpses of Mortimer standing by various groups of people, always with a few sheets of paper and a pencil in hand. When in the afternoon several lifeboats arrive, Mortimer immediately takes charge of the situation and organises their accommodation, food and registration on his list. Hartenstein smirks and lets Mortimer do what he obviously considers his job. It seems to come naturally to him to take care of those he considers himself responsible for, and it actually makes life on board easier. 

It's after dinner that Mortimer finds him in the ready room. When there's a knock, Hartenstein looks up from the charts he's been pondering over and finds Mortimer standing in the doorframe. He enters when Hartenstein nods, comes to stand in front of the table and holds out several sheets of paper. "I have compiled the list you asked for, Captain." 

"And right on time, too." Hartenstein remarks with a smirk and accepts the sheets of paper and leafs through them. There's a neat table drawn on each of them, clearly labelled and arranged in separate columns for name, age and nationality, written in a strong, slightly sloping handwriting.

Actually, there are two lists. Mortimer didn't just note down the allied survivors, but everyone. The second lists holds the data of the Italians, and Hartenstein can't help being impressed. It'll certainly make things easier. 

Hartenstein looks at the last line on both lists and quickly adds up the respective count of people. "So we are at 356 survivors in total at the moment."

It's close to his estimate, but he's sure the numbers are going to increase over the next day or two. There are bound to be more survivors drifting in the ocean. There's a reason he has sentries posted on the conning tower to check the horizon, after all. 

Hartenstein scans the lists, finding his assumption about the ratio of British to Italians and of men to women and children confirmed. If there are more coming tomorrow, it's going to get very crowded, and he knows that the U-boat's resources aren't unlimited, especially for food and water, not to mention space. But so far everything has been quiet, and there's no open hostility from either his crew or the survivors. Hartenstein cards his hand through his hair and sighs. He can't help wondering how long that state will hold true if it gets even more crowded. 

"How is everybody holding up?" He asks and looks up from the lists to find Mortimer yet again staring at him. 

For a moment Mortimer seems to be surprised by that question, but he catches himself quickly. "It's peaceful for now, sir. People are grateful for food and water, the children spent most of the time asleep and most of the injured are steady." 

Food and water are tightly rationed, with the new arrivals being given more since they're dehydrated, and gravely injured receiving however much they require. So far none of them have died, and Hartenstein is glad about that. He knows it'll make things much more difficult when he has to start ordering the dead to be cast over the side. He won't keep any dead on board, though, and take the risk on an outbreak on his ship. They will be treated just like he would treat any dead person of his own crew.

"I suggest rotating the people on board and in the lifeboats, though." Mortimer continues. "Keep the women and children on board, rotate the men. Give everybody the chance to move around or sleep in a bunk once in a while."

Hartenstein nods in agreement. It'll do much to keep the peace and quiet if everybody feels treated the same. "We'll do that."

"And I was wondering if you do have a few decks of cards for the men in the lifeboats, sir. They're complaining about being bored out of their mind." Mortimer pauses and quickly licks his bottom lips. Hartenstein can't help his gaze following the trail of his tongue before he forces himself to look up again. "In my experience, bored men can become dangerous. It's better to keep them somehow occupied. A deck of cards could go a long way, sir."

"I agree. I will see what we can round up." Hartenstein is surprised how easy it is to work with Mortimer, how natural it feels to talk to him, how easily it comes to them to deal with the situation as if they were a well attuned team. Mortimer seems to think along the same lines as he does, there are no misunderstandings and no opposite approaches to the situation. He was right. Having Mortimer on his side does indeed make things a lot easier.

"Anything else we need to consider?" Hartenstein asks and watches Mortimer shake his head after thinking about the question for a moment.

"No, I think we're as good as we can be given the circumstances." The fact alone that he doesn't try to press for more food or water tells Hartenstein that he's well aware of the situation. He knows that rationing is absolutely necessary, and he won't do anything that might endanger the people on the ship. And running out of water would definitely endanger them.

"Thank you, Mr. Mortimer." Hartenstein makes a point to look him in the eye to make him understand that he means it. Mortimer holds his gaze, and Hartenstein feels the tension build again that he noticed from the very first moment on he looked into those intense eyes. 

"Captain." Mortimer gives a quick nod, then he lingers as if he wants to say something else. He changes his mind, though, and retreats after a moment of hovering indecisively in front of the table. Hartenstein's gaze follows him, and he wonders what it was that Mortimer didn't say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, because I was done with it anyway and I know clonesgirl is looking forward to it ^^ Also, I needed a break from writing that paper for uni which I have been working on since 4.30 am this morning and which I will have to continue working on for the rest of the day. I'll call this my intellectual lunch break XD 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter ^_^ Make my dry and boring day brighter by leaving me a wee comment? *is hopeful*

  
**PART I - Hartenstein POV**  
CHAPTER 2  


_U-156, approximately 680 miles off the coast of West Africa_  
September 14th 1942

 

First thing the next morning Hartenstein orders his men to gather up all fishing equipment they have on board and improvise whatever else they can. Afterwards Weber, Fiedler and Mannesmann distribute the fishing rods among those on deck and in the lifeboats who want to help. It doesn't take long before there are men - and even a few women and children - sitting together while fishing. Hartenstein figures it's a good way to kill two birds with one stone: It'll give them something to do and at the same time any catch they make will improve their sparse diet.

It's around eleven in the morning that Mannesmann finds Hartenstein on the conning tower and reports that there are news from Command. Hartenstein makes his way down to the radio room and waits for Fiedler to rely the message. He's very relieved to learn that there are two U-boats coming to their aid. He's even more relieved to hear that they're are only a day out - they'll manage another day in the crowded space of U-156, then things will get better. 

It's about time.

Later in the day they pick up to more survivors. There are two lifeboats and a few people who saved themselves on floating debris. The expression on their faces when they set foot on deck of the U-156 is something between astonishment, relief and uncertainty. Hartenstein watches from the conning tower and wonders how many more are out there, floating around on some piece of debris. Hilda Smith's word echo in his mind, that he's responsible, and he knows she's right. It doesn't change a thing, though, this is his job, and there's nothing more he can do for the survivors than what he's doing right now. 

Down below he sees Mortimer fulfilling his self-imposed task of taking care of the new arrivals. With pencil and paper in hand he greets every single person, points them in the right direction to get food, water and clothes and notes down their name, nationality and age. Hartenstein smirks and keeps watching him until the last person is on board. 

There isn't much to do while they're waiting for the U-507 and the Capellini to arrive, so following Mortimer's suggestion Hartenstein has Waldemar rally up any kind of games they have on board and watches Fiedler and Weber explaining the rules of those games the survivors don't know. He smiles when he sees groups slowly gathering here and there, on deck as well as in the sleeping compartments, all kinds of nationalities together. Cards seem the most popular, but the few board games they have brought also find the attention of the people on board. 

When Hartenstein passes Mortimer in the galley in the afternoon, he touches his arm to get his attention and gives him a little smile. "The games were a good idea, Mr Mortimer."

"I've noticed the atmosphere is more relaxed." The Englishman replies and looks at the group sitting in the back of the room. There's some cheering when one of the Italians throws his last card on the tabletop with a triumphant grin. Mortimer turns back to Hartenstein and smirks almost teasingly. The sight gives Hartenstein goosebumps. "Maybe we should have a game at some point, Captain."

It takes Hartenstein a moment to find his voice. "We definitely should, Mr Mortimer."

"Do you play poker?" Mortimer asks, looking at him almost curiously. It's a new impression, one Hartenstein hasn't seen before.

"I do." Hartenstein replies and tries to ignore the - by now familiar - goosebumps spreading over his skin. Damn this man.

"Perfect." Mortimer doesn't look away once, and Hartenstein doesn't either. It's a bit like a duel, just without weapons. "I'll challenge you to a game, then, when we have a minute."

"I'll be happy to accept the challenge." Hartenstein smirks and raises an eyebrow, intend on rattling Mortimer a bit. It works surprisingly well. The Englishman swallows hard, but he quickly regains his composure. Only the slight red colour rising to his cheeks betrays that he's not as calm as he appears to be. Hartenstein opts to not torture the man any longer. 

"I'll be waiting, Mr. Mortimer." He says very quietly and then walks past him to leave the room. He's sure he can feel Mortimer's gaze boring into his back, but he forces himself not to turn around. He's not quite sure what just happened, and he decides that it's best for everybody involved if he doesn't think about it. Especially not now.

Hartenstein doesn't see much of Mortimer for the rest of the day. The priority for now is to get closer to the meeting point with Schacht and the Capellini, and the fact that he has several lifeboats tied to his ship, coupled with over two hundred additional people on board, makes it a slow and cautious endeavour. They don't want to capsize the lifeboats, after all. At least the weather is playing along, and the seas are calm. It could be a lot worse. 

They stop an hour before the sun sets. The dark isn't a good time to be moving with so much additional ballast, especially since they don't have the capacity to provide any form of light for the lifeboats. If something happened, they'd never know until the next morning. Hartenstein is not willing to take that risk.

They make use of the last hour of light to rotate the people in the lifeboats. Hartenstein watches from the conning tower while those who spent last night and most of the day on board change place with those who stayed in the lifeboats. Di Vicenzo, who became something of a speaker for all Italians, is standing next to Mortimer and together they help the passengers off the lifeboat. There is some resistance on the part of those who are supposed to get on the lifeboats, but in a mixture of English and Italian they manage to get everybody to understand that the change is necessary. Hartenstein hears Mortimer explain to a middle-aged man how it works and promise him that he'll be back on board tomorrow. It takes a bit of back an forth, and Hartenstein admires how patient Mortimer is with the stubborn man. He remains polite, but it's clear that he won't budge, and the man finally accepts his fate.

It's almost dark when the exchange of the passengers is complete. The lights on deck are on to provide at least a little bit of light for those who will spend the night outside. There's not enough room for everybody inside the U-boat. Some people are milling around, others have curled up somewhere to sleep. There's always some background noise, but it's still amazingly quiet considering how many people are gathered on deck.

Hartenstein is still scanning the horizon when darkness falls. Everything is clear. No lights at all. The advantage of the darkness is that you can spot ships even easier than during the day. Light travels far at sea.

He turns to look at the ladder when he hears somebody climbing up. A second later Mortimer's silhouette appears, outlined against the lightened deck behind him. He crosses the platform and comes to stand beside Hartenstein. He doesn't say a word, just leans with his elbows on the bulwark and looks out over the vast emptiness of the sea. Hartenstein hears him take a deep breath, slowly and deliberately, as if he is consciously savouring the fresh air. 

Hartenstein turns back to look out over the sea. It's weirdly comfortable, standing there together in companionable silence that neither feel the urge to break. Night has completely fallen when Mortimer finally turns towards him and holds out a sheet of paper. "It's the new arrivals from today."

Hartenstein looks at it for a second before taking it. He never asked Mortimer to continue noting down the data of the survivors who hadn't been on board when he first compiled the list. He can't say that he's really surprised, though. It's nice to see his first impression proven right yet again. Mortimer would have made a damn fine First Officer, Hartenstein thinks.

"How many more?" Hartenstein asks because it's too dark to read the faint pencil writing. He knows better than to try.

"Fifty-seven. Fourteen of them Italians." Mortimer replies immediately without having to check. Hartenstein wonders if he knows the entire list by heart. "That makes a total count of four hundred thirteen on board and in the lifeboats, Captain."

Hartenstein remains silent and stares into the darkness, although he can't see a thing. Four hundred thirteen people. They're fast approaching the maximum his ship can take. 

"Were there any reaction to your radio messages, Captain?" Mortimer asks after a minute or two of silence. His voice is very quiet as to not carry to the people on deck. He's probably very well aware of the fact that they can't go on like this much longer before the ship and the crew are reaching the limit of what is manageable.

"There will be two ships joining us sometime tomorrow." Hartenstein replies equally quiet. "They will take the Italians on board and resupply us with food, water, medicine and clothes."

Mortimer lets out his breath in a way that sounds like he's relieved. "That should ease the situation a bit."

"It should." Hartenstein agrees. "Furthermore there's a French vessel, the _Gloire_ , on its way to us to take on the allied survivors. It'll take a while longer, though."

Even in the darkness Hartenstein can sees Mortimer shrug. "Well, we are in the middle of nowhere, after all."

Hartenstein hesitates a moment, then he replies, "Which is also in our favour."

"How's that?" Now Mortimer turns fully towards him, but the darkness of the night makes it impossible to see his face. The lights coming from the deck allow him only to make out the outline of his head and shoulders.

"We're out of range of Allied aircraft." Hartenstein elaborates. "At least for now. It should provide enough cover until all of the survivors have been transferred to other ships."

"Because some will believe this to be a ruse." Mortimer nods slowly, as if he's just understood the meaning of it. "And you can't submerge in the event of an attack. Not with so many additional people on board."

"You weren't here yet when we executed a test dive." Hartenstein is still amazed that the ship managed to resurface. For a few minutes he'd been sure that this dive would be their final one. "We made it, but let's just say that I'm not going to do it again."

"So we're basically a sitting duck." Mortimer's voice is very quiet, and Hartenstein knows it's because he doesn't want the survivors on deck to hear what they're talking about. It would cause unnecessary panic. It's not like anything can be done to improve their current situation.

Hartenstein just nods. "Pretty much."

Mortimer doesn't reply, but Hartenstein can feel that he's still looking at him, even if he can't see it. It feels like he's being scrutinised, and yet he doesn't have the impression that it's malevolent. More like Mortimer is looking at him in the light of new information, knowledge he didn't have before. Hartenstein wishes he could see his face so that he could get an idea of what the Englishman is thinking, but the darkness is too profound to allow for more than a rough silhouette. 

"It's good, then, that we're getting help tomorrow." Mortimer says after a long moment of silence, his voice still quiet. 

"It sure isn't a moment too soon." Hartenstein acknowledges. They're not running out of food and water just yet, but without resupplying, they would do so pretty soon. The ship's supplies aren't meant for over four hundred fifty people, after all. The catches of the day provided them with a little additional food, but the few fish aren't enough to feed the entire rag-bag of survivors and crew.

"I should try to find some rest now, too." Mortimer jerks his chin at the people huddled up under blankets on deck, the majority sleeping or at least trying to. "Good night, Captain."

"Good night, Mr. Mortimer." Hartenstein watches the Englishman swiftly climb down the ladder. For a moment, right before he disappears out of view, Mortimer's face is illuminated by the electric torches positioned on deck. They draw a fascinating picture of light and shadow, emphasise Mortimer's elegant features and his full lips, reflect off his wind tousled hair and enhance the blue of his eyes when his gaze catches Hartenstein's for the fraction of a second. Hartenstein feels like somebody punched him in the gut, and he finds himself still staring after Mortimer is long gone. 

The moment only lasts for maybe a second, but Hartenstein feels like the image is burned into his memory. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to stop staring at the now empty spot, then he picks up the binoculars again and scans the dark horizon for any signs of other ships. Time to do something useful. Not too much later Mannesmann joins him in his task.

It's almost eleven o'clock when there's an opportunity to get a few hours of sleep. Like any seafaring man, Hartenstein knows not to waste such an opportunity. You never know when it might come up again. So he leaves Mannesmann in charge and retreats to his cabin. It's the only room on the U-boat that they're not sharing with the survivors. Instead, his bunk serves for the crew to sleep in turns since all other bunks are taken by the injured, the women and the children.

Hartenstein takes off his shoes, his jacket and his hat and lies down on the bunk, otherwise fully clothed. It's one of the things he learned early on. You never fully undress on a submarine, especially not as the captain. You're always ready to appear at the con within seconds, at any given moment, and being ready includes being dressed.

Hartenstein closes his eyes and consciously relaxes his muscles. It usually helps him to unwind enough to fall asleep whenever he wants to, no matter the time of the day. Life on a submarine means losing the connection to the natural course of day and night. It's a 24-hours job, and so it's essential to be able to sleep whenever the opportunity arises. Hartenstein has been living at sea long enough to have mastered that art a long time ago.

Tonight it's not working, though. In his mind's eye he sees Mortimer again, in that precise moment when the lights of the deck below caught on his face and made his features stand out like a skilfully carved relief. After several minutes of unsuccessfully trying to go to sleep, Hartenstein opens his eyes again and stares at the ceiling, unmoving but for the gentle rising of his chest with every breath he takes. 

_/"Never forget that you are a German."/_ Hartenstein whispers into the empty room. It feels hollow and meaningless, although he knows that it shouldn't. It should mean as much to him as it does to Rosteau, who believes it wholeheartedly. 

But it doesn't. Not in the face of the recent event. 

Maybe it never did.

Hartenstein takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, lets it escape slowly. Of course he knows about his... _inclination_. He's known for a long time. It's not something he _wouldn't_ have noticed. It's never been an issue, though - being a seafaring man, he's never spent much time around women anyway. But Hartenstein also knows how dangerous it is, and he has never ventured into the risky business of following his urges once he'd joined the _Reichsmarine_. It just wasn't worth it.

Not that he's had much of a problem with that, either. He's the Captain, it's out of the question for him to engage with somebody from the crew for many reasons, and those are the men he spends almost all of his time with. All in all, considering the dangers attached to his preferences, he's never had much trouble with it.

Now that has changed. All of the sudden, completely unexpectedly, in the most unlikely situation - and in a most dangerous way.

It's not just sexual attraction. Hartenstein is not ignorant enough to put it down to just that, he knows himself better than that. What first attracted his attention was Mortimer's demeanour, it caught his eye long before he had the opportunity to actually properly _look_ at the Englishman. Not to mention that Mortimer had more resemblance with a drowned rat than a human being when he'd first seen him. Barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, wearing nothing but a shirt and long johns. Not the classic idea of either presentable or attractive, but that hadn't mattered. 

It still doesn't.

Hartenstein closes his eyes and rubs his hands over his face. Oh God, how did this happen to him? He has fallen for another officer, but not just that, he has fallen for the enemy. For a _British_ officer. A prisoner of war in his care. A man he met not even two days ago. Neither his timing nor his taste could have been any worse, he thinks with a hint of self-deprecation. Well, he's famous for doing things the hard way. Seems that also holds true now.

 _/"Never forget that you are a German."/_ He murmurs under his breath again. It has become kind of a mantra, and he wonders what it says about him that he has to repeat it so often. Between Hilda Smith's questioning spirit unsettling his beliefs and Thomas Mortimer's utter attractiveness provoking thoughts he never had before, he's close to forgetting the meaning of those words more often than not. It's dangerous. Very dangerous.

The current situation doesn't make it any easier. It's less than convenient, actually. The crammed quarters of the submarine mean that Mortimer is always too close, and yet there's no privacy at all. It isn't exactly helping that Hartenstein has a shipload of survivors in his care, either, or that he's the one who sank their ship in the first place. The animosity he felt coming from Mortimer at their first meeting made it a little easier to keep his distance, to not let his thoughts wander where they had no right to go. 

But tonight, when Mortimer joined him on the conning tower, the unspoken, underlying hostility wasn't there anymore. Instead the atmosphere was companionable, almost peaceful. It had thrown him for a loop.

Hartenstein can't help being fascinated by the Englishman. Mortimer may seem calm and in control, but Hartenstein knows that underneath the surface, there are emotions running high and hot. He could see it in Mortimer's defiant gaze that very first time they talked. He feels it every single time Mortimer looks him in the eye. It's a sensation limited to Mortimer alone. There's something going on, and by now he's sure it's not just him imagining things. He doesn't feel this kind of tension with anybody else on board, neither his crew nor the survivors. It's just Mortimer.

Maybe what fascinates him is that Mortimer is genuinely decent, to the very core of his being. It's not a mask, it's not a way to appear grand and gain people's trust, no, it's who he really is. There's an inexplicable feeling of certainty that Hartenstein can trust this man, never mind that he doesn't know him, that he has no reason to trust him. Mortimer is the kind of person he would want to have in his back in a crisis like this one. It feels good to know that they're slowly getting to that point.

Hartenstein's eyes drift shut. He wonders what Mortimer looks like in full dress uniform. His tall, lean frame enhanced by the cut off the uniform and by his posture that radiates discipline and relaxed elegance at the same time, a hat completing the impression of professional competence. He can see it before his mind's eye, as clearly as if it was real. He wonders what he'd see if he undid those buttons, if he pushed the jacket off Mortimer's shoulders, if he...

Hartenstein's eyes snap open. He can't continue like this. He has to get control over his overly active mind. He needs to reign in those wandering thoughts. He needs to regain the stoic calm he's known for. He needs to never let them show, those dangerous, inappropriate thoughts. It's not worth it. It's too dangerous.

His breath is coming too fast, it's almost loud in the small room. Hartenstein tries to calm down, to clear his mind. It's not worth it, he reminds himself again.

 _/"Never forget that you are a German."/_ Hartenstein repeats and closes his eyes again, trying to force his mind to let go of all thoughts and get some much needed hours of sleep. 

It doesn't help. He still sees Mortimer's face before his mind's eye, even when he's long asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I'm in a productive mood - scientific writing and fictional writing, both in one day (my paper for uni is coming nicely XD) As always, this chapter is for my dear clonesgirl - a wee something for you to enjoy over breakfast ^^

  
**PART I - Hartenstein POV**   
CHAPTER 3   


_U-156, approximately 660 miles off the coast of West Africa  
September 15th 1942_

 

Hartenstein is standing on the conning tower with the binoculars in hands, scanning his section of the horizon. There are four crew members facing in other directions so that they cover the entire perimeter at the same time. Hartenstein wants to make sure they don't miss the two submarines coming for their aid, and he wants to ascertain even more that it's indeed their support he's letting close to his ship, and not some allied attack ploy. That's why he and his men have been here for hours, constantly checking the horizon for signs of the expected ships.

Down on deck and in the lifeboats there are people fishing again. It's an activity that has become quite popular, and it doesn't hurt that the fresh fish adds to their diet some much needed variation. Hartenstein noticed an hour ago that Mortimer joined a group of five men who are chatting while fishing, their feet dangling from the side of the deck. Hartenstein immediately recognises the British boxer and of course the Italian with big mouth. Those two seem to be attached by the hip, Hartenstein noticed that it's rare to find one without the other. 

He can't help finding it interesting how things seem to be askew in this particular situation, how generally accepted truths are ignored and expected hostile behaviour is suspended. Even Rosteau has an obvious weak spot for the little British boy, not to mention that the boy seems to really like Rosteau, never mind the language barrier. It seem as if everybody on board the U-156 is in their own little bubble here in the middle of the nowhere, where the rules of war and the animosity of nationalities don't apply. It really is reminiscent of the truce in the last war, Hartenstein thinks with a smirk and goes back to watching the horizon.

It's shortly before noon that Hartenstein spots the U-507 in the distance, not far behind a second submarine that has to be the Capellini. He grins while watching the two submarines approach. He is more than grateful to get at least some of the survivors off his ship. The U-156 is simply not made for close to four hundred fifty people, and it's been getting more and more crowded with each newly arriving lifeboat. It'll do them all some good to get a bit more space, along with fresh supplies of food and water.

It takes a few hours to ferry the passengers and the supplies from one ship to the other. At times they have five inflatable dinghies passing back and forth between the three submarines. Hartenstein watches from U-507's conning tower and enjoys a smoke with Schacht. He can see the Italians climbing from U-156's deck into one of the lifeboats that's been recruited to serve as a transport boat. Hartenstein easily recognises Mortimer's tall frame and next to him the Italian with the big mouth. Together they're organising the transfer, Mortimer with the lists and a pencil in his hand. Hartenstein suppresses a smirk and turns back to Schacht. Some things just don't change.

It's late afternoon by the time the U-507 and the Capellini are ready to leave. Hartenstein returns to the U-156 with the last supply run. There are some eighty people less on his ship now, but it's still crowded. The fact that on his orders Dengler puts a hearty meal on the table for dinner that night raises spirits considerably, though, just as Hartenstein knew it would. They're not short on supplies anymore, so he can afford to indulge his guests for one evening and make sure the atmosphere on board remains peaceful.

Soon after they separate from the other ships, Hartenstein gives the order to follow U-507 and the Capellini to the rendez-vous point with the French vessel _Gloire_. They're a lot slower than the other submarines because the U-156 still has four lifeboats in tow and Hartenstein makes sure to stay slow enough to not risk them capsizing. A few more days, then they'll meet up with the _Gloire_ and the survivors will be transferred off his ship and onto the allied vessel. 

They've managed so far, so they'll manage for another few days. 

 

*** 

 

_U-156, approximately 644 miles off the coast of West Africa  
September 16th 1942_

 

"Captain! Get down!" 

It's out of the corner of his eye that Hartenstein sees Mortimer lunge for him, then he feels his hands grab his shoulders and the momentum of his tackle brings them both down at the same time that the entire ship shudders under several incoming bombs. Hartenstein hits the deck hard, the impact numbing his hands where he caught himself. He's soaked, but he doesn't pay it any attention, instead he gets to his feet, already shouting commands. _/"Kappt die Schleppleinen! Kappt die Schleppleinen!"/_

"Cut the tow ropes!" he hears Mortimer's voice shout the same command over the general panic, and a few survivors actually follow the command and join the submariners' efforts to release the lifeboats from their lines. 

The sound of the B-24 Liberator gets louder again, a sure sign that the plane is coming back for another round. It's too late to man the guns now, there's no time, so Hartenstein concentrates his efforts on evasive manoeuvres instead. 

_/"Hard to port! Hard to port!"/_ Hartenstein shouts and his well-trained crew jumps to action immediately. The Liberator makes another pass, and there are more bombs falling. Screams fill the air, in pain and panic, followed by the sound of explosions. Water fountains rain down on the lifeboats and U-156's deck, drenching everybody on board.

It's only when he sees the Liberator leave the area that Hartenstein allows his gaze to wander around to check the situation. He sees immediately that there are two lifeboats missing. There are bodies bobbing in the water, some moving, some ghostly still. The people on deck of the U-156 are slowly getting up from their crouched positions or from where they'd been thrown down by the explosions. It's a mess, but Hartenstein is well aware that it's not as bad as it could have been.

When he scans the deck for potential damage his gaze lands on Mortimer. He's resting with his back against the conning tower, but he's not making any attempt to get up. That alone tells Hartenstein that something is wrong. Mortimer isn't the kind of man to sit idle in a situation like this.

With a few steps Hartenstein reaches him. When he looks down to check on the Englishman, he sees the bloody rift in Mortimer's trousers. There's a gaping wound on his thigh, and he's ghostly pale. Without thinking about it, Hartenstein grabs him and pulls him up. Mortimer rests heavily on him and he's shaking with either pain or shock, but he doesn't utter a sound.

"Come on, Mortimer, hold onto the rail." Hartenstein mutters under his breath while trying to manoeuvre the injured man down the ladder into the ship. As soon his feet touch the floor, Hartenstein reaches for Mortimer and grabs him around the waist to steady his descent. "That's good, let go now, I've got you."

Mortimer does as he's told and wraps his arm around Hartenstein's shoulder in the obvious attempt to take the weight off his leg. Hartenstein hears him breath heavily and his lips are pressed into a thin line. He must be in intense pain.

"Damage report, Rosteau!" Hartenstein shouts while he's still helping Mortimer. He's glad for the men coming to his aid immediately when they see that he's bringing an injured man. There's no time to look after Mortimer now, so Hartenstein passes him on to Mannesmann with the order to take care of him. It's the best he can do for now. 

Rosteau is by his side only seconds later, and follows him to the con while giving an account of the damage in the quick and efficient manner that's typical for him. Hartenstein listens carefully, glad to hear that there's no fatal damage and that the repair works are already under way. 

Still. This is the end of the rescue attempt. He will not risk the lives of his crew for allied survivors when it's the _Allies_ who're actually attacking them. He doesn't understand why the Liberator opened fire. His radio messages over the past few days made it clear that the U-156 is engaged in a rescue mission. There's no way the pilots missed the Red Cross flag, the huge amount of people on deck or the lifeboats. Fiedler repeatedly flashed them in Morse code to inform them about the situation. 

And they still bombed them.

It makes him angry, and at the same time he's outraged that they dared to bomb a ship sporting the Red Cross flag. Under the convention of war at sea it's absolutely forbidden to attack ships engaged in a rescue mission. The attack was deliberate, and that's what enrages him so much. He doesn't even know where the plane came from, to his knowledge the U-156 should have been far outside the range of any aircraft.

"Weber!" Hartenstein shouts and the crewmen comes to stand in front of him just a second later. _/"All the British are to immediately leave the ship!"/_

For a second Weber seems shocked. _/"Women, children and injured too, sir?"/_

 _/"All the British!"/_ Hartenstein repeats, making sure to sound hard. Weber nods and runs off to follow the order. Hartenstein feels a tight knot form in his stomach. It's a hard decision, and he doesn't like it at all, but it's the only thing he can do. Playing sitting duck is not an option anymore, not after this attack.

"Remmert!" Hartenstein barely waits for the wireless operator to pull out his pencil before he starts dictating his message to Command about the outrageous attack and the fact that he'll abort the rescue mission. When Remmert has run off to relay the message, Hartenstein rubs his hand over his face and through his wet hair. He knows he's doing the right thing, but it makes him feel cruel and inhumane to abandon the survivors in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with the French ship still days away from their position. 

An hour later, the last survivors are getting into the lifeboats. Hartenstein ordered his men to distribute as much food, water, medicine and blankets among the lifeboats as they can spare. He wants to make sure that the passengers can make it long enough for other ships to arrive and pick them up. Hilda Smith has already left on one of the first lifeboats. He left her the choice to stay, but he always knew she wasn't going to take it. Somehow he finds himself hoping that she will make it, maybe build a new life as a British citizen. Happiness elsewhere. 

There's just one lifeboat still tied to the deck, nearly fully occupied. Hartenstein looks at Mannesmann who nods to let him know that all the survivors have left the ship, then he points behind Hartenstein and makes the hand signal for 'one'. So there's one person left, and Hartenstein knows who it is.

It's only when Hartenstein sees Mortimer approach, heavily supported by Remmert, that it sinks in that Englishman risked his life to save him. That Mortimer took a hit for _him_ , the enemy, the one to sink the Laconia. And yet Mortimer didn't hesitate a second to save Hartenstein's life when he saw it endangered by the American attack. Somehow that changes things, changes their dynamics. 

Hartenstein catches Remmert's gaze and holds it. Remmert knows what he's asking, and gently shakes his head no. _He won't make it in a lifeboat._ Hartenstein hears the words as clearly as if Remmert had said them aloud. He suspected as much, in fact he knew it in the precise second he saw the ripped flesh of Mortimer's thigh. It may not be a fatal wound with appropriate care, but without any care, it will most likely kill him. That's not a risk Hartenstein is willing to take. He _can't_ take it. It could be days before the _Gloire_ gets here, and proper care of such a wound is not possible in a lifeboat.

"We like you so much, Mortimer, we've decided to keep you." The words come easy, as does the little smile. Mortimer holds his gaze and gives a short nod in thanks. He knows what Hartenstein just did, and why he did it. Hartenstein can tell that Mortimer is well aware that he won't survive out at sea in a lifeboat. 

Remmert is also smiling when he helps Mortimer return to the hatch, knowing fully well that sending him out in a lifeboat would have been his death sentence. Seems that Mortimer managed to make a few friends already, Hartenstein thinks while he watches them make their way painfully slowly across the deck. Mortimer's doesn't put any weight on his left leg and instead relies on Remmert to support him. Hartenstein reminds himself to check on Mortimer later on. 

As soon as the last lifeboat has cast off, Hartenstein returns to the con and asks Rosteau how long it'll take before the ship is ready to dive. He doesn't want to wait around for the next attack. A little more than an hour later, he gives the order to submerge. The men jump to action immediately and soon there's the familiar tilt to the floor that tells Hartenstein that they're descending. It's a nice and controlled dive, completely opposite to that horrible test dive they did with the survivors on board.

It feels good to finally have the U-boat to themselves again. At the same time it's strange how the space seems almost too empty. When they're at a comfortable depth, Hartenstein sets course north in the general direction of Europe. Everything is running smoothly, so he leaves the con to find Mortimer.

Remmert tells him they set him up in crew quarters with the rest of the crew, now that the bunks are available again. True to his words, Hartenstein finds Mortimer sitting on a bottom bunk, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. He's too pale, and there's a sheen of sweat on his face. He doesn't look too good.

"Hello, Mortimer." Hartenstein greets him when he comes to stand next to the bunk. There are a few other men asleep right now, so Hartenstein keeps his voice down. "How are you doing?"

Mortimer looks at him, but Hartenstein can't help noticing that his gaze is a little unfocussed. "I'm fine, Captain."

Hartenstein doesn't quite believe that, but he leaves it for now. "The rescue is over, Mortimer, but you remain."

Mortimer doesn't reply, and Hartenstein has to admit that he looks a little lost. He's not sure if it's caused by shock and maybe the pain of the injury or by the fact that he's the only Englishman left on board. 

Hartenstein continues when he's sure Mortimer doesn't have anything to say. "May I remind you that you are a prisoner of war, although the conditions and the freedom you've experienced will remain the same during your time with us." 

"How long will that be?" Mortimer asks quietly. He knows his future is out of his hands now.

"I don't know yet. So far we have no orders." Hartenstein replies and watches the angry little red spots on Mortimer's cheeks while the rest of his face remains very pale. He looks sick. "You should rest, Mortimer. You don't look so good."

Mortimer raises his chin in a way that is stubborn as well as defiant. "I'm fine, Captain."

"Rest will still do you good." Hartenstein suppresses a smirk in reply to the challenging gesture, knowing it would only enrage Mortimer further when it's the opposite he wants to achieve. "There's nothing else to do right now, anyway."

Hartenstein leaves him alone with those words. He can't make Mortimer rest, but he's sure the Englishman will fall asleep soon enough. He has to be exhausted after the past few days, not to mention today's injury.

It's evening when Remmert comes to find him in the con. There's a worried expression on his face and Hartenstein feels icy fingers of dread wander down his spine. _/"What is it, Remmert?"/_

 _/"Mr Mortimer isn't doing so well, Captain."/_ Remmert's voice sounds about as worried as he looks. _/"I think you should see for yourself."/_

Hartenstein doesn't hesitate to get up and follow him to the living compartments. So he'd been right, Mortimer wasn't fine, no matter what the stubborn Englishman said. As if to confirm his bad feeling, Mortimer is lying unnaturally still in the bunk, his face is red and there's sweat running down his temple. His breath is laboured, but otherwise he doesn't make a sound.

 _/"I came to change his bandage, sir, and found him like this."/_ Remmert leans down and pulls the blanket off the injured leg. _/"But it gets worse. Look at this."/_

Remmert carefully undoes the bandage he'd obviously been in the course of changing before he came to get Hartenstein. 

_/"Infected."/_ Hartenstein says quietly when he sees the angry red flesh surrounding the neatly stitched wound. The feeling of dread gets worse tenfold. Infection is always a lot more dangerous than the actual injury. 

Remmert nods with a grave expression on his face. _/"He's already feverish, sir."/_

 _/"How much sulfa do we have left?"/_ Hartenstein eyes the little packs that lie on the table that's fixed between the bunks. The first aid box is standing next to the white packs, lid open and a fresh bandage already set aside next to a pair of scissors.

Remmert follows his gaze. _/"Enough since we resupplied, sir. This is just the emergency kit's content."/_

 _/"Good."/_ Hartenstein looks at Mortimer's wound, then at his heated face before he turns back to the crewman. _/"What can we do?"/_

 _/"Keep him hydrated, sir. Change the bandages twice a day and make sure that the sulfa keeps the infection at bay. Keep him from overheating - well, at least we're not lacking water."/_ Remmert says while he begins to remove the used bandage with sure fingers. _/"Try to get him to eat a little soup. Otherwise we can only hope that he has the reserves to pull through. There's not much else we can do for him on board, Captain."/_

Hartenstein nods, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knows that the options on board are fairly limited, and land is too far away to even try. Not to mention that it's enemy territory, he can't expect help from that side. _/"Do you need some help?"/_

Remmert reaches for a bowl of water and gently puts a cool, wet cloth against the irritated skin on Mortimer's thigh. He looks up while keeping the cloth in place with one hand. _/"Weber would be good, sir, he has some basic medical knowledge as well."/_

 _/"I'll send him to you."/_ Hartenstein watches quietly while Remmert cleans the wound before applying a fresh pack of sulfa and a clean bandage. It must be very painful, and in a way Hartenstein is glad that Mortimer isn't awake to feel it. He was right to not send him off with the other survivors. In this condition, Mortimer wouldn't have made it through the night in a lifeboat.

After a few minutes Hartenstein leaves Remmert to his task. On the way he crosses Weber and tells him to help and assist Remmert in any way necessary. The rest of the evening is quiet, and Hartenstein makes a detour to check on Mortimer before he turns in. The Englishman in still sleeping, and Weber is sitting next to him with a bowl of water and a cloth pressed to Mortimer's forehead. 

Weber looks up when he notices Hartenstein and gently shakes his head. _/"No change, Captain."/_

Hartenstein nods. He expected as much. _/"Let me know immediately when there is any change in his condition."/_

_/"Aye, Captain."/_

Hartenstein turns around and makes his way over to his cabin. When he is lying in his bunk, sleep doesn't come for a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the next part of the story. Sorry that it took me so long - at least that paper for uni is done now ^^ As always, this chapter is for my dear clonesgirl - I hope you like it, hon!

  
**PART I - Hartenstein POV**  
CHAPTER 4  


_U-156, approximately 600 miles off the coast of West Africa_  
September 17th 1942

 

The next morning when Hartenstein is passing the radio room, Fiedler stops him with a sheet of paper in his hand. _/"This just came from Command, sir."/_

Hartenstein takes the page, and Fiedler returns to his station and puts the headphones on his ears again. Hartenstein looks at the paper and reads it with a frown. The fact that the order is called 'Laconia Order' already tells him a lot about it before he has even read the first line. 

_/'1. All efforts to save survivors of sunken ships, such as the fishing out of swimming men and putting them on board lifeboats, the righting of overturned lifeboats, or the handing over of food and water, must stop. Rescue contradicts the most basic demands of the war: the destruction of hostile ships and their crews.'/_

No more rescue operations, then. Hartenstein wonders how many Commanders are actually going to obey that rule. It goes against the very principles of life at sea, against the code of honour almost all of them live by. He knows that he himself won't leave anybody to drown if there's a perfectly reasonable and easy way to save them without endangering his crew. He might not take them on board, but he will provide some supplies, a compass and the information of their exact position, just as is custom even among enemy crews.

_/'2. The orders concerning the bringing-in of captains and chief engineers stay in effect.'/  
/'3. Survivors are to be saved only if their statements are important for the boat.'/_

It makes him think of Mortimer, and Hartenstein feels the knot in his stomach tighten. His next stop will be the crew quarters to check on the Englishman. He knows better than to expect any improvement, but there's still a modicum of hope that he can't entirely stifle. 

_/'4. Stay firm. Remember that the enemy has no regard for women and children when bombing German cities!'/_

Well, Hartenstein can't help thinking, that goes both ways. It's war, after all, all parties involved are doing pretty much the same thing. It feels a bit like he's hearing Hilda Smith's voice saying those things in his mind. He tries to push those thoughts aside, they're not appropriate for a German U-boat Captain. He doesn't quite manage.

Hartenstein stares at the paper for few moments, then he folds in in half. Mannesmann was right. There are consequences for his actions, even if they're not quite what Mannesmann was referring to.

 _/"Captain. I just received another message."/_ Fiedler turns around in his chair and holds out a second piece of paper, this one filled with his surprisingly neat handwriting. It's the orders from Dönitz that they were waiting for. 

They are to continue patrolling the waters until further notice, and he's to bring the English Officer to Lorient to be handed over to the authorities upon his return. Hartenstein doesn't like it, but he knew the moment he decided not to send Mortimer out on a lifeboat that he pretty much condemned him to the fate of a prisoner of war. It seemed like the better choice at the time. At least Mortimer has a chance at survival now - which would not have been the case in a lifeboat.

It reminds him with a stab that it's not even sure that Mortimer will make it to Lorient. Infection is a serious risk, especially in these conditions with no professional medical care available. Even if it's not the wound that kills him, the fever he's running can drain his last energy reserves until he'll just fade away. Hartenstein has seen it happen before. More than once, actually. 

Before going to the con, Hartenstein passes by the crew's sleeping compartment to see how Mortimer is doing. Nothing much has changed, apart from the fact that now it's Remmert and not Weber who's sitting next to the bunk. The Englishman is still out, and according to Remmert he hasn't woken up yet. Mortimer's face is red with fever and he's sweating, his eyes closed and sunken in. Hartenstein looks at him for a moment with a deep frown, then he forces himself to leave, but not before ordering Remmert - just like Weber the last night - to get him immediately if his condition changes. For better or worse.

When Hartenstein gets to the con he plans to work on the charts. It doesn't take more than a few minutes before the shuffling of way too many feet tell him that something is going on. The men have gathered and form a half-circle around him, looking at him with serious eyes. Hartenstein feels his skin prickle unpleasantly with a sense of foreboding. When Mannesmann hands him an important message from Admiral Dönitz, Hartenstein takes a deep breath to fortify himself for whatever it is that will come next. He knew his actions would have consequences, after all, and he took that risk willingly.

The message is not at all what he expected. In fact, it takes him a moment to fully understand what is written on the piece of paper he's holding in his hands. He is the 125th member of the _Kriegsmarine_ to receive the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross. It's the highest military honour Germany has to offer, and he suddenly feels humbled to be rewarded such a distinction. There's a sense of relief that these aren't the bad news he was expecting, paired with astonishment and amusement that the men managed to pull this off with a straight face. 

_/"That was very cruel, Mannesmann."/_ Hartenstein remarks with a smirk, and Mannesmann and Rosteau come forward to shake his hand, then they push Waldemar in front of him. He's holding one of their pillows, and on top of it rests an Iron Cross medal, complete with an improvised ribbon in red, white and black. It's made of wood, beautifully carved despite the difficult conditions of its creation. It must have been a piece of driftwood, Hartenstein thinks, because they don't exactly carry around wood on the U-boat. He knows who made it - he has seen Waldemar carving a few times in his spare time.

The gesture touches him deeply. Mannesmann takes the makeshift medal and ceremoniously ties it around Hartenstein's neck. The men start cheering and there are huge smiles on the faces surrounding him. Hartenstein feels honoured to serve with such an outstanding crew, and he returns the smiles he's given. This is not just his medal, and he needs his men to know that. He wants them to understand that this distinction is theirs, too, and that he will always honour their accomplishment.

He's glad he finds the words.

 

***

 

There's no change in Mortimer's condition over the next few days, and he spends most of the time asleep. Remmert renews the bandages twice daily, and Hartenstein makes a point of being there regularly to see how bad it is or if there is any improvement. The infection seems not to spread, which is more than any of them dared to hope for. Mortimer's body is fighting with everything it has, and it visibly drains his reserves. Hartenstein doesn't like it at all how ghostly pale he is whenever he's not flushed with fever. 

Mortimer is awake for no more than a few minutes at a time, and Remmert and Weber try their best to make him eat some soup and drink some water whenever he opens his eyes. He's not lucid, though, but lost in a fever-induced delirium that makes him call them by names they don't know, his voice dark with pain more often than not. They're all female names, and Hartenstein wonders if they are his wife and children. He knows Mortimer is married, he's wearing a golden wedding band on his finger. But the way Mortimer says those names makes a shiver run down Hartenstein's back. It's painful to watch, and to Hartenstein it feels like he's witnessing something he has no right to see. When he catches Remmert's gaze during one of those moment, he sees the same feeling of unease reflected back.

Hartenstein is worried. He can admit that, to himself and to the crew, because he knows they're all kind of concerned for the Englishman who's almost silently suffering in their midst. They know he got injured saving their Captain, and that made him rise in their esteem quite a bit. Even Rosteau asks from time to time how Mortimer is doing, and Hartenstein takes it as the unspoken token of respect that it is. 

On the second day Hartenstein offers to have Mortimer moved out of the crew quarters and settled in the bunk in his cabin, but Remmert argues against it. As long as Mortimer is in the sleeping compartment, they'll know immediately when something is wrong because there's always somebody there, relaxing or sleeping their turn. Hartestein sees the point and lets Mortimer stay where he is. He noticed that pretty much everybody is keeping an eye on the Englishman, and Weber and Remmert still have other tasks, after all. They can't look after him twenty-four hours a day, and if the crew is helping out without him even having to ask for it, he won't interfere.

All the while, they're slowly making their way up the West African coast. Late in the evening of September 18th the sentries spot a ship on the horizon. They approach her during the night, then trail her for most of the next day. It's a British steam merchant ship, the _Quebec City_ , and Hartenstein decides to go after her. She's 4.745 tons, and she's armed and unescorted. Late in the afternoon, when they're about 400 nautical miles north-northwest off Ascension Island, Hartenstein gives the order to attack. 

The sinking is easy and straightforward. One torpedo renders her immobile and leaves her seriously damaged. Hartenstein has the U-156 surface, and watches from the conning tower how the crew abandon ship. It takes little more than a few rounds from the deck guns to make the _Quebec City_ lose its fight to stay afloat and she disappears under water within a few minutes. 

Hartenstein waits a while before he orders the U-156 to get close to the site of the sinking. They spot two lifeboat, and Hartenstein makes his ship approach until they're in shouting distance. Somehow he's glad to see only men in drenched uniforms in the boats. No civilians. No women and children. 

He questions the Captain only briefly. There's not much the man can tell him, so Hartenstein decides against taking another prisoner of war. Before they leave, Hartenstein provides the survivors with a compass, water and some food, just as is custom. He doesn't care what the Laconia order says - he won't go against the fundamental rules of life at sea. Nobody in the crew protests, not even Rosteau. Hartenstein has the feeling that they all learned something from the Laconia incident. He himself included.

Soon afterwards they submerge and leave the area, direction north-northwest, on the same course as before they encountered the British ship. Hartenstein knows the _Quebec City_ managed to send off a radio message with her coordinates and a mayday. There was a response from the _HMS Decoy_ , a British destroyer, so it's reasonable to assume that help will arrive sooner or later. He doesn't intend to stick around and be caught on the surface by a destroyer. A U-boat is no match for a full fitted destroyer when running on top. A submarine's advantage is stealth, not open warfare.

They surface for the first time two days later. After long and careful surveillance, they know that they're the only ship in the area, and the weather is nice, sunny and warm, and the seas are calm. It's the perfect opportunity to allow the crew to relax. Hartenstein has heard that Mannesmann intends to catch another shark, and he has to admit that it would be a nice change from the potato soup they're having all the time. 

Hartenstein leaves the con, manned with a skeleton crew, and makes his way to the sleeping compartment. It has become a habit to check on Mortimer several times a day, and it worries him that there hasn't been an improvement throughout the entire time. Instead it even got worse the night after the sinking of the _Quebec City_ , and Hartenstein stayed to help Weber out when Mortimer began trashing around in some fierce feverish nightmare. It took both of them to keep the Englishman from hurting himself, and Hartenstein had been surprised how much strength there was left in his fever-ridden body.

When Hartenstein enters the crew compartment, he finds it mostly empty. Remmert is sitting in his usual spot on Mortimer's bunk with a wet cloth in his hand, and there is a bowl of water standing on the table next to him. The emergency kit has become a fixture on the table, as well as Remmert's coffee cup and a mug with water for Mortimer. 

_/"How is he doing?"/_ Hartenstein comes to stand at the headboard of the bunk and looks at their patient. Mortimer isn't flushed anymore, nor is he deadly pale. Hartenstein feels the knot in his stomach uncurl a little.

Remmert looks up with a smile. _/"He's getting better, sir. I think the fever broke sometime last night."/_

Hartenstein can't keep the relieved smile off his face. _/"That's good news."/_

 _/"It sure is, Captain."/_ Remmert hesitates, then he continues. _/"For a time there, I wasn't sure he'd make it."/_

 _/"Neither was I."/_ Hartenstein admits silently, then he takes the cloth out of Remmert's hand and jerks his chin in the general direction of the hatch. _/"Go up on deck and enjoy the sun, Remmert. I'll take over here."/_

Remmert looks a bit surprised, then he nods with a half-smile. _/"Thanks, Captain."/_

He gets up from where he was sitting on the bunk, careful not to knock over the bowl of water on the table. When he's standing at the end of the bunk, he stretches until his joints pop. Hartenstein knows he spent the night looking after Mortimer, and he deserves a few hours of rest and relaxation. 

_/"The bandages are fresh, Captain. He should be fine for the time being."/_ Remmert says and then leaves the room with a quick, grateful nod. Hartestein takes his place and sits down on the bunk, always paying attention not to unsettle Mortimer's injured leg. He dunks the cloth in the bowl and wrings it until it stops dripping, then he passes it gently over Mortimer's face and neck. 

For once there's nobody else in the sleeping compartment. All bunks are empty because everybody is making use of the opportunity to get some fresh air and spend some time outside in the sun. All crewmen who aren't currently manning the con are on deck, and it feels strange to be alone. Hartenstein is so used to the constant presence of the men around him that he pointedly notices their absence.

Hartenstein takes the chance to look at Mortimer. _Really_ look. His face is relaxed like it hasn't been in all the days before. There are deep shadows under his eyes and his skin still has the waxy complexion that's typical for sickness, but he looks a lot better than yesterday. His hair is messed up from all the thrashing in the pillow, and Hartenstein finds himself reaching out to smooth a random strand out of Mortimer's face before he has consciously thought about doing it. His hand lingers for a moment, then he touches his hand to Mortimer's forehead. It's neither ice cold nor burning hot, which is good news. Instead, it feels warm, just like it should. Hartenstein can't stop the relieved sigh escaping his lips. 

Mortimer begins to stir under his touch, a frown crosses his face and then his eyes blink open slowly, as if they have to adjust to the light. Hartenstein feels warm all over when the blue eyes focus on him, actually _seeing_ him. They're still sleepy, but otherwise clear. The fever is indeed broken. 

Hartenstein smiles with relief and lets his fingers soothingly caress Mortimer's skin and hair where his hand is still resting on his forehead. Mortimer turns into his touch and his eyes close for a second, as if he's drifting off to sleep, but then he forces them open again and his gaze focusses on Hartenstein. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, just looks at Hartenstein with a little smile on his lips that makes Hartenstein's heart miss a beat. Mortimer's expression is so uncharacteristically unguarded in his sleepy condition, and it seems to take him a moment to remember where he is. "Captain?"

"Welcome back, Mortimer." Hartenstein smiles and ignores the rough quality of his own voice. There's nobody but Mortimer in the room to hear it, anyway. "You had us scared."

"What happened?" Mortimer's voice is so hoarse from disuse that he can barely form the words. Hartenstein reaches for the metal mug filled with water that Remmert always keeps within reach on the table.

"Drink." Hartenstein cups his hand under Mortimer's head and helps him lift it enough to take a few sips of water. "What do you remember?"

Mortimer lies back again. The little effort already seems to have exhausted him. "The Liberator attacked us. I got hit, then the others leaving in the lifeboats. Nothing much after that."

"Your injury was infected. You were running a high fever for the past six days."

"That explains the headache and the exhaustion." Mortimer remarks almost dryly and Hartenstein can't help chuckling. His fingers are still caressing Mortimer's skin, and he can't seem to make himself stop. Mortimer either doesn't notice or doesn't mind, and Hartenstein is glad that he's not asking him to stop. 

"Go back to sleep, Mortimer." Hartenstein says quietly and slowly cards his fingers through the soft hair at Mortimer's temple. "You need to rest to get back to your feet soon."

Mortimer nods as if in agreement and his eyes drift shut almost immediately. It doesn't even take half a minute before Mortimer's breath evens out and he's asleep again. He must be exhausted to drift off that quickly, Hartenstein thinks while watching the Englishman's face relax again. The strands of his hair are soft under Hartenstein's fingers, and he doesn't stop the gentle, soothing caress for the long minutes he simply sits there on the bunk, watching Mortimer sleep. 

Even now there's something fascinating about him, Hartenstein muses. His fingertips trail over the dark eyebrows, along the cheek that's rough with stubble until his hand is cupping Mortimer's jaw. He can't seem to stop his thumb slowly tracing the full bottom lip in a whisper of a touch. It's dry yet soft, and Hartenstein wonders how it would feel against his own lips.

The thought gives him a start and he forces himself to pull his hand back. He has no right to touch Mortimer like that. He doesn't even know if Mortimer wants it. Chances are that he doesn't. Not if the person touching him is a man. A German. The U-boat Commander who sank the Laconia. The man who condemned him to a life as a prisoner of war. Who set the survivors afloat in the middle of the Atlantic with help still days away. And on top of that, Mortimer is married. That alone should tell him to back off, Hartenstein chides himself. His attention is unwanted and unwarranted.

Hartenstein takes a deep breath and tries to regain his centre. He can't allow these insane, totally inappropriate thoughts to take control of him. It's not like him to be so... emotional. He still doesn't know what it is about Mortimer that gets under his skin, but there's no denying that it's there. He just hopes that Mortimer doesn't know. It's dangerous and it's not worth it. This sentence is quickly becoming another one of his mantras, he thinks with a good dose of sarcasm that's directed entirely at himself. 

Hartenstein soaks the cloth in the bowl of water, wrings it out and places it on Mortimer's forehead. For the rest of the afternoon he makes a point of refraining from touching him in any way that's not absolutely necessary. He's almost glad when one by one, the men come back inside and he can leave his post by Mortimer's side to Weber.

There's shark soup that evening, and Hartenstein enjoys it profoundly. It really does taste good, and it's nice to have something other than potato soup. Mannesmann makes his rounds distributing shark teeth after dinner, accompanied by enthusiastic comments from the men. Hartenstein accepts the rather large one Mannesmann offers with an amused smirk and praises his First Officer for his great catch. Mannesmann does have a certain talent for shark hunting, they all agree on that once their bellies are full and they're relaxing with a cup of coffee in hand. 

The next morning Hartenstein goes by the sleeping compartment again to see how Mortimer is doing. He's sleeping, but Weber tells him with something like triumph in his voice that he managed to make Mortimer eat a bowl of chicken broth. Hartenstein makes an effort not to smirk at the young man's pride and to let him know how much his achievement is appreciated. Weber positively glows, and Hartenstein allows his smirk to show once he's turned around to leave the crew quarters. Mannesmann, who's sitting on the edge of his bunk and drinking a cup of coffee, catches his eyes and returns the amused smirk. 

The day is rather boring. They don't cross any ships and Hartenstein decides to keep running on top for now. Rosteau makes good use of the opportunity to get his engineers to repair some of the not so important damages from the attack of the American aircraft. It's mostly cosmetic, as he calls it, but he still seems to be happy to finally get it done. Hartenstein knows Rosteau doesn't like seeing the U-156 in anything but perfect shape, and it must have annoyed him that some repairs were postponed for so long. 

In the evening, when Hartenstein comes to the crew's sleeping compartment to check on Mortimer, he finds him, Weber, Remmert and Fiedler engaged in a game of cards. Mortimer is leaning against the headboard of his bunk, Remmert sits next to him and Fiedler and Weber are sitting on the opposite bunk. It's a rather harmonious picture, Hartenstein thinks with a smirk. 

Mortimer looks a lot better. The paleness of his skin has eased and the fact that he's sitting up and playing cards tells Hartenstein a lot about his improved condition. This scene would have been unthinkable just twenty-four hours ago. Hartenstein stands back and watches for a moment until Mannesmann waves him over and invites him to a game of chess. 

Every day that passes sees Mortimer grow stronger. He's recovering quite well and soon he can be seen limping through the ship once in a while. He is still careful with putting weight on his leg, but he's quite obviously determined to get back on his feet - quite literally, in this case. Remmert regularly changes the bandages on his injury and Hartenstein is relieved to see it heals nicely now that Mortimer overcame infection.

It's about a week after Mortimer woke up from his fever delirium that Hartenstein finds him trying to pull his weight on the ship. It's very early in the morning and Hartenstein is climbing the ladder to the conning tower while skilfully balancing his mug with freshly brewed coffee in one hand. He's done it a thousand times, and it's been a while since he last spilled anything. Since it's so early, Hartenstein is surprised to find not only Waldemar, but also Mortimer on the conning tower. They're both scanning the horizon with binoculars for any sign of other ships. Mortimer is leaning with his hip against the bulwark, his left leg cocked to take off any weight, the only concession to the fact that his wound is not entirely healed yet. 

Waldemar salutes when he sees Hartenstein approach. _/"Good Morning, Captain."/_

 _/"Good Morning."/_ Hartenstein nods in return and sips his coffee. _/"Waldemar?"/_

_/"Yes, Captain?"/_

_/"Have you eaten yet?"/_ Hartenstein asks and raises an eyebrow.

Waldemar shakes his head. _/"Not yet, sir. Been up here."/_

Hartenstein takes the binoculars out of his hand and nods in the direction of the hatch. _/"Go grab breakfast, then. Dengler is serving right now. I'll take over for you."/_

 _/"Thank you, Captain."/_ Waldemar smiles openly in a way that reminds Hartenstein of a little boy. Well, he is one of the youngest members of his crew, after all. In a way he is still a child. With a few steps Waldemar disappears down the ladder and into the interior of the ship.

Hartenstein walks over to Mortimer and leans next to him on the bulwark. After a moment he holds his mug out and Mortimer accepts it with a smile that reaches his eyes. "Thanks." 

Hartenstein watches him wrap his free hand around the warm metal. Mortimer brings the mug to his nose, closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath of the strong coffee scent before he takes a sip. Hartenstein is transfixed by the sensuality of the simple gesture, and he forces himself to look away. He doesn't want to be caught staring.

"So, Mortimer, what brought you up here so early in the morning?" Hartenstein asks after a moment of silence because he needs to distract himself from the display in front of him. His fingers almost twitch with the desire to touch Mortimer. He wraps them tightly around the binoculars instead.

"Thought I'd make myself useful." Mortimer says with a half-smile over the rim of the mug and holds up the binoculars in one hand as if to clarify what he's talking about. Hartenstein can't quite hide his smirk. He already noticed that Mortimer hates being idle, and even more to feel useless. 

"You're not trying to sign up for my crew, are you?" Hartenstein remarks with amusement plain in his voice. He accepts the mug Mortimer returns to him and takes a sip while watching Mortimer with a raised eyebrow.

Mortimer chuckles. "Not quite."

"How is your leg?" Hartenstein inquires and pointedly looks at the white bandage visible through the patched-up rip in the trousers' fabric.

"Still painful, but I can use it, so I won't complain." Mortimer shrugs. "It could have been a lot worse."

Hartenstein is well aware of that. If that bomb had been just a little closer... 

"You could have been killed." The words leave his mouth before he can hold them back. What's even worse is that even he himself can hear how raw his voice sounds. Still, he doesn't lower his eyes, he wants to see how Mortimer will react.

Mortimer holds his gaze, and Hartenstein feels the familiar goosebumps spread on his neck and arms when Mortimer replies in a low but firm voice, "I know."

There's a lump in his throat all of the sudden and Hartenstein has to swallow hard to get rid of it, but still, his voice won't work. The goosebumps multiply and creep all over his body. It's just two words, but they imply so much, seem to hold so much more meaning than two words should be able to contain. He can't avert his gaze, even if he had wanted to, and somehow it's reassuring to be able to read in Mortimer's eyes that he knows what he's implying, and that he means it. 

It's Mortimer who averts his gaze first and leans with his elbows on the bulwark, turning his face towards the horizon where the early morning sun is colouring the sky a faint red. Hartenstein is well aware that the gesture is for his benefit. Mortimer knows that he rattled him, and he's giving him a moment to regain his composure.

It's there again, this feeling that he can trust Mortimer, and Hartenstein takes the risk of betraying some of his inner turmoil by taking off his hat and running his hand trough his hair in a gesture that he knows is slightly nervous. It calms him, though, it always does, and he takes a moment before putting his hat on again. He downs the last of his coffee, then he follows Mortimer's example and rests his arms on the bulwark too, looking out over the vast sea. The silence is companionable and comfortable in a way that allows Hartenstein to regain his centre.

"Thank you, Mortimer." Hartenstein says quietly when he finally finds his voice. He's not just referring to the Englishman saving his life, and he hopes that Mortimer knows that.

"Always, Captain." Mortimer replies equally quietly and gently bumps his shoulder against Hartenstein's, his eyes never leaving the horizon. He's smiling, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's been a while since I updated this fic, but I assure you it's not abandoned or forgotten, I actually have a lot more written in bits and pieces. I'll get it finished eventually, but there's still some plot to come beforehand ^_^
> 
> And here the usual: Some of the dialogue is taken from the movie, sometimes adapted to my storyline. _/"Blabla"/_ are things originally said in German.

**PART I - Hartenstein POV**   
CHAPTER 5

_U-156, approximately 510 miles north-northwest of Ascension Island  
October 2nd 1942_

 

The days have been slow. Rosteau is about to finish even the tiniest repair he still had on his list and seems to be satisfied with U-156's current condition. They stopped the engines for a day to allow for the last repair works, and Hartenstein is just waiting for his chief engineer to give the green light. Meanwhile, Hartenstein is going over all the information he has to decide where they'll head next. He's pondering over a chart in the con when he hears footsteps stopping behind him. "Captain? May I have a word?"

It's Mortimer, and he sounds like there's something important he wants to talk about. When Hartenstein turns around, he finds Mortimer standing at ease before him, holding himself with the formal elegance that Hartenstein noticed a few times already, especially when Mortimer was dealing with official tasks. So this is not about a personal matter - which is good, because something has shifted between them ever since that morning on the conning tower, and Hartenstein isn't quite sure what it means and how to deal with it. It feel like there's a strange kind of comfortable ease to their interaction, something that is new and yet oddly familiar. It regularly throws him for a loop, but he never does anything to stifle it, although he knows that he should.

"Certainly." Hartenstein agrees and motions for Mortimer to follow him to the ready room. When they enter, Hartenstein doesn't sit down but remains standing, leaning with his hip against the table. Mortimer limps through the doorway after him, taking a bit longer because his leg is still causing him problems. "What can I do for you?"

"I know this is a somewhat unconventional request, Captain, " Mortimer begins, then he stops and licks his lips in a gesture that seems nervous, "but I want to ask you to provide me with an occupation."

Hartenstein can't keep his eyebrows from rising. Mortimer surprises him yet again. Of course he knows that Mortimer doesn't like being idle, but he never expected him to basically ask for a job. He's still a prisoner of war, after all. Technically, they're still enemies. Before he can think better of it, Hartenstein remarks with a smirk, "I thought you said that you weren't planning on signing up for my crew."

Mortimer's mouth twitches in a halfway suppressed smile. "I'm not. But it's not an option to just sit around and twiddle my thumbs, either. There's no way of telling how long I'm going to be on this ship, and I need a task or I'll go crazy. There has to be something I can do to make myself useful."

Hartenstein inclines his head in agreement. He can certainly see Mortimer's point.

"I know it's not exactly common for a prisoner of war to work on an enemy ship, but I have to admit that I find the entire situation rather unusual." Mortimer continues with an air of seriousness about him. Hartenstein wholeheartedly agrees that this situation is anything but normal, and has been ever since he decided to take the survivors of the Laconia aboard. Mortimer still being on board only continues the strangeness of the situation. "There are a lot of things I can't do due to the obvious fact that I don't speak German. And you certainly understand that I can't and won't be an active part in the destruction of allied ships, but there have to be other things that I can do." 

Hartenstein holds Mortimer's intense gaze, and he finds no deception there, only the honest desire to have something to do, to be useful. It tips the scale for him, and he nods slowly. "There are always things that need to be done. We'll find something." 

"Thank you, Captain." Mortimer inclines his head with the beginning of a smile that is quite obviously born out of relief. He looks truly grateful, and Hartenstein wonders how stir crazy Mortimer must have gone in order to come forward with this request. 

When Mortimer has left, Hartenstein calls Mannesmann and Rosteau to the ready room. He tells them about Mortimer's request and that he intends to grant it before he asks them for their opinion on the situation. Rosteau is quick to point out that he's not letting an enemy anywhere close to the ship's engines or any other critical systems, and Hartenstein reassures him that there's no risk of that happening. Mannesmann on the other hand declares it a good idea to have Mortimer work with them, pointing out that the Englishman has proven himself a reliable and helpful asset before, when the survivors were still on board. Contrary to Rosteau, Mannesmann knows that Mortimer won't be involved in anything crucial, that's a given they don't even need to mention. Mannesmann comes up with a few ideas where Mortimer could help out, and after dinner, Hartenstein finds Mortimer in the crew quarters and tells him that he'll be on the watch detail along with Weber and Waldemar the next morning.

From that moment on, Mortimer works wherever there is a task that he can fulfil. He often stands watch on the conning tower with a few other crew members. He's also doesn't consider it beneath him to help out Dengler in the galley and soon is found in the kitchen around mealtimes. He proves to be a master at making coffee and it doesn't take long before Hartenstein notices that his crewmen wait specifically for the times when Mortimer is on duty in the galley to refill their cups or thermosflasks. He has to admit that Mortimer's coffee is better than the stuff Dengler brews. It's stronger, but also tastier. He can't quite explain it. For a Brit, Mortimer certainly knows his coffee.

Or maybe it's that Dengler is just too young to know what real coffee should taste like. He's almost as young as Waldemar, after all, still more a boy than a man.

The week following Mortimer's request is very quiet. There's not much traffic at the moment, they haven't encountered a ship in over a week. The crew is in that special state where they're relaxed but not yet restless or longing for action, and the atmosphere is comfortable. Hartenstein has always enjoyed these moments, they're rife with easy camaraderie and are essential for the men to bond from individuals working together into a proper crew. Even Fiedler is slowly finding his place among the men who have already worked together for several patrols.

Hartenstein is oddly relieved to notice that the men slowly include Mortimer into life on board instead of treating him like the prisoner of war he actually is. He's often invited to join them in the games they play in their time off, and he rarely sits alone at mealtimes. Despite the language barrier he seems to somehow make himself understood whenever Weber or Fielder aren't around to translate. Hartenstein is sure that part of the acceptance by the crew comes from Mortimer's efforts to help out, although there's not that much he can do. It's also helping that he's still occupying the same bunk in the crew sleeping compartment, and thereby his presence has become familiar. 

When Hartenstein goes to the galley one evening to get something to eat, it's reasonably busy due to it being dinner time. He notices Mortimer and Dengler working together serving soup to the crew, and Hartenstein lingers in the back for a moment, watching them. They're quick and efficient, one filling the bowls while the other is serving them and taking back used ones. Somehow they seem to get along without needing to say much - which is probably a good thing considering that Dengler doesn't speak a word of English. 

When the queue is almost gone, Hartenstein walks up to Mortimer who takes one of the bowls Dengler prepared and hands it to Hartenstein. "Dinner, Captain?"

Hartenstein accepts the food, looks down at his bowl and then back at Mortimer. "Let me guess: Potato soup."

Mortimer smirks. "How did you know?"

"Experience, I guess." Hartenstein chuckles. In a spur of the moment decision, he asks, "Tell me, Mortimer, do you play chess?"

Mortimer nods in answer to the question, while handing out a bowl to another crew member. "My grandfather taught me when I was a child."

"Would you do me the honour of a game?" Hartenstein asks with a smirk and jerks his chin in the direction of the ready room. The chess board and the metal box containing the pieces are still on the table because Hartenstein and Mannesmann played a round last night.

Mortimer chuckles, and the fact that the smile reaches his eyes is not lost on Hartenstein. "I would, Captain. Once I'm done here."

"I'll be waiting." Hartenstein replies with a raised eyebrow. Mortimer's smirk deepens, and it sends a shiver down Hartenstein's back. He does his best not to let it show and wonders what the hell he's doing.

Hartenstein eats with Mannesman and Rosteau who join him in the ready room shortly after he sat down. They talk about the area they plan to patrol for the next few days before they start swapping some funny stories about their time on other ships. It's one of those bonding moments Hartenstein cherishes so much, and it leaves him feeling relaxed and at ease.

When Hartenstein returns his bowl to the galley, Mortimer and Dengler are busy cleaning up. Dengler might be young, but he certainly keeps his galley spotless. Mortimer is working with the same devotion, and Hartenstein hides a pleased smirk when he returns to the ready room. Mortimer sure takes his new tasks seriously, and he doesn't show in the ready room before the galley is clean and he and Dengler have neatly put away every piece of crockery and cutlery. Hartenstein isn't really surprised, he has known for while now that Mortimer is a disciplined and reliable man who will never skip any part of his duty, no matter what the task is. 

Through the doorway, Hartenstein watches Mortimer limp over to the ready room. His steps are carefully controlled and measured. There's a certain moment when Mortimer's leg seems to not quite be able to take his weight, and that's when he favours it enough that the limp shows. It's still a lot better than a week ago, Hartenstein thinks with a sense of relief. He wasn't sure how bad the damage to the muscles was, and he still isn't sure Mortimer will be able to lose the limp entirely. He's certainly making an effort, though. 

When Mortimer enters the ready room, Hartenstein offers him a seat opposite of his own and pours Mortimer a cup of coffee from the thermosflask. "So, do you play often?"

"Not recently." Mortimer replies while sitting down. "My fellow officers on the Laconia didn't play. Not that there was much time for it, anyway, with so many people on board." 

There's no reproach in the words, they're just a simple statement. Hartenstein watches Mortimer take up his cup to drink some coffee, and he finds no hidden tension in his body language. It surprises him, but at the same time he appreciates it. He doesn't want an argument, not tonight. He wants to relax over a game of chess and forget the world and the war for just a few hours.

Mortimer sets down his cup and reaches for the box containing the chess pieces. "May I?"

"Sure." Hartenstein nods and watches Mortimer setting up the chess pieces with ease, a sure sign that he knows what he's doing. Hartenstein finds his gaze drawn to Mortimer's long fingers placing each wooden piece on its designated square before reaching for the next. His hands are large but slender, his movement efficient and precise and somehow elegant. Hartenstein forces himself to look away when his thoughts begin to head into a direction that they shouldn't. Like wondering what those hands would feel like on his skin, what they could do to him, where he wants to feel their touch...

_/"Never forget that you are a German."/_ Hartenstein repeats for the umpteenth time in his mind when he forces his attention back to the situation at hand, away from those dangerous thoughts. The chess board is completely set up, and Hartenstein notices that Mortimer awarded him the white pieces and took the black ones for himself.

"White moves first." Mortimer says to Hartenstein and looks at him expectantly. Hartenstein doesn't hesitate and makes his first move. Mortimer is equally quick and it only takes Hartenstein a few minutes to realise that he has found a skilled opponent. It makes him smirk in anticipation. Until now Mannesmann was the only one coming close to his level of skill, but Hartenstein still managed to defeat him three times out of four, so he's glad to have a new opponent who's more of a challenge. 

He doesn't know how long they have been playing when he's staring intensively at the chessboard, mentally going through the possible moves and Mortimer's probable reactions. There are several pieces lined up next to the board, black ones as well as white. Hartenstein contemplates his options for another moment or two, then he moves his rook.

"What is the German word for 'rook'?" Mortimer asks and points at the piece in Hartenstein's hand.

The question takes Hartenstein completely by surprise, and it takes him a few seconds to answer. "We call it 'Turm'. Literally translated that means 'tower'."

"And the bishop?" He holds up his own piece, the black bishop.

"It's a 'Läufer'. That means 'runner'." Hartenstein replies, still unsure what this is about.

"How do you spell it?" Mortimer looks at him with a frown, obviously thinking about how it could be written.

"In German there are a few more letters than in English. One is the 'ä'-sound, which is used in 'Läufer.' It's written like an 'a' with two dots above the letter." Hartenstein tries to understand what Mortimer is up to. He has to admit that he doesn't see it. "So it's L-Ä-U-F-E-R."

"German seems quite complicated. The words are very different from English." Mortimer says while placing his bishop and taking one of Hartenstein's pawns. Hartenstein doesn't manage to concentrate on the game, instead he looks at Mortimer who takes up his cup of coffee to take a sip. 

"Like _Beker_." Mortimer continues and points at his mug. "But at least I do understand _Kaffee_." 

"A mug is a _Becher_." Hartenstein corrects with a smirk and makes a point to repeat the -ch sound that seems to pose the biggest challenge to Mortimer who tries to imitate the sound and manages after the fifth attempt. 

"You're getting there." Hartenstein praises with a teasing smirk. "A little more practise and you'll be fluent."

"I doubt it." Mortimer replies with a chuckle. "But I'm trying to pick up a thing or two. Weber and Fiedler told me a few words, and I regularly ask Dengler for the German words for some of the things we use in the galley." 

"Are you seriously trying to learn German?" Hartenstein asks, surprise plain in his voice because he can't quite believe that Mortimer really wants to learn the language of his enemy. 

"I haven't been very successful so far." Mortimer shrugs with a half-smirk, playing absent-mindedly with the pawn he just took from Hartenstein. "It gives me something to do, though. When I was still bedridden, pretty much the only thing I could do apart from sleeping was listening to the men and trying to guess what they were talking about. I didn't get very far, but it kept me busy." 

Mortimer pauses, stops playing with the pawn and puts it neatly in line with the other pieces he claimed so far. "And I figured that I could try to learn a thing or two since I'm listening to the language almost the entire day. And it would be helpful to be able to say and understand at least the very basic things of daily life. Like _Becher_ and _Kaffee_. It's just two words, but it's enough for me to understand that somebody is asking for a cup of coffee."

It's then that it hits Hartenstein that Mortimer can only talk to three people on board - Fiedler, Weber and Hartenstein himself. Of course he already knew that, but he only now realises what that means for Mortimer in daily life. No wonder he was going crazy without a task. It also shines an entirely new light on his effort to work on board - it has to be incredibly difficult to do so while not being able to communicate. Hartenstein wonders again how Mortimer manages in the galley with Dengler. They must have found a way to make each other understand what they want to say, because they seem to be getting along really well and Hartenstein did notice that the food distribution at mealtimes is much faster. 

"Allright then. I'll teach you." Hartenstein says before he has even thought it through. "What do you want to know?"

"Numbers." Mortimer says immediately. "Weber taught me how to ask 'how many' in German, but Dengler always has to either write it down or count on his fingers to tell me the number. Knowing numbers - at least until the count of fifty - would make my daily life a lot easier." 

Well, that begins to explain how Mortimer and Dengler communicate, Hartenstein thinks with a smirk. Doesn't sound too comfortable. Hartenstein looks around for a moment, then he points at the first of the chess pieces lined up next to the board. " _Eins_. One."

Mortimer repeats it, and Hartenstein slowly goes on until they have counted all fourteen pieces that are out of the game so far. Then Mortimer returns to the first pieces and tries to go through all of them on his own. Hartenstein has to help him a few times, but he manages to get almost all numbers.

"Now I just have to remember them." Mortimer remarks with a smirk, then he glances at the board and his smirk deepens. "By the way, Captain, it's still your turn."

Hartenstein chuckles and makes the move he planned out half an hour ago. Every time either one of them loses another piece, Hartenstein continues the count, and Mortimer dutifully repeats the numbers. Hartenstein has to admit that it's one of the most relaxing and enjoyable chess games he has played so far - even if Mortimer wins in the end. Hartenstein acknowledges that he has found somebody who can match him in this game, and he admits - at least to himself - that he is looking forward to play against him again.

Of course the chess pieces only get them as far as the number thirty-two, so once the board is empty Hartenstein points at one square after another and Mortimer counts until they reach thirty-two, then Hartenstein takes over and continues until he reaches the last square at the count of sixty-four. They go over it twice, and Hartenstein is positively surprised at Mortimer's good memory. There are only few numbers he gets wrong or can't remember, which Hartenstein thinks is impressive considering that it's Mortimer's first attempt at learning them. 

"Well, thank you for the lesson, Captain." Mortimer leans back in the chair and glances at the mug in his hand, then he smirks and catches Hartenstein's gaze. "And for the _Becher_ of _Kaffee_."

Hartenstein can't help chuckling. He likes how the words sound coming from Mortimer. He has quite a distinctive accent, and Hartenstein finds he likes listening to it. "You're welcome." 

Mortimer sets down his empty cup and begins putting the chess pieces back into their metal box. "We should do it again."

"Tomorrow?" Hartenstein offers immediately, a little startled at his own eagerness to repeat tonight's game. 

Mortimer looks up and Hartenstein is sure there's faint surprise in his eyes, but it disappears when he smiles. "I'd love to."

When Mortimer has placed the last chess piece in the box, he closes the lid and carefully gets up. He remains standing next to the table for a moment, and Hartenstein can't help his gaze being drawn to Mortimer's eyes. The silent lasts longer than is either polite or appropriate, but Hartenstein doesn't make any effort to break it. Instead he holds the intense gaze and almost enjoys the too familiar goosebumps slowly spreading over his neck and down his arms. 

"Good night, Captain." Mortimer says finally, his voice deeper than it usually is, and he turns around to leave.

"Good night, Mortimer." Hartenstein replies and watches him limp out of the ready room. Of course Hartenstein is aware that he has long since stopped using a title for Mortimer, instead he just says his name. As if they knew each other well. As if they were friends. As if there wasn't a war standing between them. He knows he shouldn't allow Mortimer to get so close, that he shouldn't allow _himself_ get attached to Mortimer, who is not only a prisoner of war in his care, but also an enemy officer. 

But he just can't find it in him to put an end to their strange interaction. Mortimer manages to surprise him again and again, he keeps him on his toes while at the same time giving him the feeling that he can trust him. It's a strange feeling, a situation full of contradictions, yet Hartenstein can't help being drawn to the Englishman like a moth to the flame. He knows he will get burnt, if not by the man himself then by the situation they're in. Once they return to Lorient, he will have to hand Mortimer over to the authorities, and that's something he is highly reluctant to do. So far he's been able to push those thoughts aside since there's not even an order for them to return to port, but it will come, and Hartenstein knows that. 

He takes a deep breath and presses his lips into a thin line. It's dangerous and it's not worth it, he repeats in his mind over and over again, as if that could make him actually believe it. The real problem is that he cares less the more time he spends with Mortimer. Hartenstein sits at the table for a long time, staring at the doorway Mortimer disappeared through, lost in thoughts. When he finally shakes himself out of it, he takes a pencil and a few pieces of paper and begins to write. Once he's done, he folds the papers and puts them in his pocket, then he returns to the con.

The next morning, when Hartenstein gets his breakfast from Mortimer in the galley, he hands him the pieces of paper he wrote the previous evening. "This might help you a little."

Mortimer takes them with a questioning expression on his face, unfolds them and leafs through them. Hartenstein knows what he sees: The first page shows a neat table with the English terms for each chess piece in the first row, followed by the German word and an improvised pronunciation aid that Hartenstein came up with last night. The second page contains another table, this time it's the numbers up to 100 with the German word next to them, again with the improvised pronunciation help in the last column. The third and fourth page are filled with random words Hartenstein compiled according to the likeliness of Mortimer needing them. There are kitchen utensils and foods, ship types and furniture, the four cardinal directions and words for the general orientation like 'left' and 'right'. The fifth page lists some expressions and basic sentences like 'I'm hungry' or 'Good Morning' that Hartenstein deems necessary for everyday communication. He again tried to give Mortimer a pronunciation aid so that he would be able to learn them without anybody having to read out the German words for him.

Mortimer scans all five pages, then he looks up and catches Hartenstein's gaze. There's something akin to surprise in his gaze, and there's no denying the warmth in his eyes. 

"Thank you, Captain." he says with a little smile that is somehow intimate in its sincerity. The rough tone of his voice makes the familiar goosebumps spread over Hartenstein's neck and arms again. "This will definitely help."

"I thought it might make it easier for you to see the words written down." Hartenstein replies and returns the smile before he gives a quick nod and continues his way to the con. He can feel Mortimer's eyes following him, and the goosebumps spread even further. 

Their chess games become a habit. There's no fixed time when they play, but they do it almost every day. Each game is also a language lesson, and soon Hartenstein catches himself pondering over what he could teach Mortimer next. Mortimer proves to be an talented and dedicated student, so a few days later Hartenstein sits down with him to teach him some basic grammar. Mortimer has no problem trying to use his newly learned words with Hartenstein during their chess games, but otherwise Hartenstein doesn't hear him speak to anybody. It's like he's collecting words and learning them, trying to understand rather than speak. He doesn't hide his newfound pasttime, though. Hartenstein sees him with pencil and paper more often than not, and he knows that Mortimer asks Dengler as well as other crew members to write down German words for him when he comes across new ones he might need. During a morning meeting, Rosteau expresses his mistrust in Mortimer's interest in learning German, and Hartenstein has to fight to suppress his amusement when he sees Mannesmann roll his eyes where he's standing beside Rosteau.

One afternoon, when Hartenstein finds Mortimer bent over in his bunk trying to write words in an obvious attempt to memorise them, Hartenstein offers him to use the table in the ready room, pointing out that it's a lot more comfortable. Mortimer looks up in surprise, gives a lopsided smile and thanks him. Later that day, Hartenstein spots Mortimer hunched over his notes in the ready room. Hartentein smiles to himself and focuses on his duty on the con.

It's a little over two weeks after their language lessons began that Hartenstein hears Mortimer actually say something in German to anybody other than him for the first time. The irony of the fact that Mortimer chooses Rosteau to practise his language skills is not lost on Hartenstein, and he's sure Mortimer does it on purpose. It's after dinner and Rosteau is off duty and lingering in the ready room once he's done eating. Hartenstein is in the con and through the doorway he can see Mortimer sitting at the table with his notes, as he does most evenings. Hartenstein watches him look at Rosteau for a moment, then Mortimer reaches for the chessboard and metal box with the pieces and pushes them in the middle of the table.

_/"Game? Chess?"/_ he asks Rosteau in distinctively accented German and points at the chessboard. 

It's just two words, not even a sentence, but the effort pays off. Rosteau's surprised face is so hilarious that Hartenstein can't quite suppress a smirk. Rosteau's surprise turns into a frown, then he sits down after a moment of hesitation. Mortimer keeps his face neutral while setting up the pieces, but Hartenstein knows he's enjoying his triumph. He's well aware that Rosteau mistrusts him, Hartenstein is sure of that.

Mortimer awards Rosteau the white pieces and soon they're engaged in a rather silent game of chess. Hartenstein watches for a moment with a smirk on his face. Maybe Rosteau can learn a thing or two from Mortimer. Not only concerning chess.


End file.
